Painted Into A Corner
by Nicole Berman
Summary: A weekend project has ramifications for Doggett and Reyes’ relationship. (Post-ep to "Audrey Pauley".)


The SUV pulled up in front of John's little house in Virginia. "Thanks for the beer," Monica smiled at him. 

"Thanks for the lift," he replied, unbuckling his seat belt. 

Monica undid hers as well, turning slightly to face John. "So, big plans for the weekend?" 

"Oh, huge." He paused, his face still locked in a somber expression. A hint of amusement danced in his blue eyes, though. "Microwave pizza, satellite TV." 

"Wow. Thanks for making my life sound exciting." Monica grinned at him. She was starting to worry. All night long, he'd been quiet, more serious than ever, if that were possible. John's usual stony gaze was more distant tonight. "Maybe we both need pets," Monica offered, trying to lighten his mood before they parted for the evening. "They say people with pets live longer." 

"I was thinking about getting a cat." John's face started to relax a little. 

Monica's mouth twisted in amusement. "There's dog people and there's cat people. *You* are a dog person, John." 

"How do you figure?" He grinned at her, the tight-lipped grin that shook Monica's heart. 

She laughed, glancing down at her lap, then back up at him. She ticked off his qualities with a slight nod of her head for each one. "You're faithful. You're dependable. You're without guile." Monica lowered her voice a little, slipping into a flirty tone she hadn't used in years. "And you're very comfortable to be around." Their eyes locked and her heart skipped a beat. Monica let the comment linger in the air, hoping John would seize it. When he didn't, she sighed mentally and continued, "So, why a cat?" 

"Low maintenance," John shrugged slightly. "Don't expect much from ya, so you can't disappoint 'em." He would never have admitted it to her, but that was half the reason he didn't pursue anything with his beautiful partner. Not only was it against Bureau regs, but he'd already failed to protect his son. John couldn't live with himself if he lost her because of his own ineptness, too. 

Monica's face drew into a frown, picking up on his hesitation as only she seemed to be able to do. Her eyes never left John's face as she sent him the most sincere message she could. "I don't see you ever disappointing anyone, John." 

There was long moment of silence as he fought to control himself. John wanted to ask her to stay, but there was no way he could. He started to speak a couple of times, but nothing sounded right in his head. He settled for, "See ya Monday?" 

Her disappointment wasn't evident on her face but plain as day in Monica's voice. Even John, usually denser than a brick, could hear it. "Yeah." She wrestled with a sigh that wanted to voice itself. "See ya." 

John smiled at her, hoping to relieve some of her frustration with him. His eyes glinted with unspoken laughter as he opened the door, glancing at Monica in the dim glow of the cabin light. *You're a flirt, Monica Reyes. You think I can't tell, but I can.* He fervently wished he could encourage her. He stood on his front walk, watching her Suburban vanish down the street. 

Three blocks away, Monica glanced at the passenger seat and shook her head slightly. "John, John, John," she murmured. *I know I wasn't that subtle,* she thought. *So why are you still holding back on me?*   
  


* * *  
  


Two weeks later, that conversation was haunting Monica. In the interim, something had changed in John. Since her car accident, he was still avoiding any hint of impropriety, but there was a different air about him now. Monica got a vague sense that he was slowly coming around, but she wondered if it wasn't just her own wishful thinking. Last weekend, they'd gone to the pound in hopes of finding him a pet. It hadn't worked out quite like that, but he'd treated Monica to lunch, and she was satisfied for the moment with whatever they had. She thought their relationship lay somewhere between drinking buddies and confidantes. 

Saturday morning dawned gloomy, with the promise of thunderstorms in the air. She loved that particular mood, it put her in a mindset for projects. Monica sat on the floor, legs crossed Indian-style. Eyeing the paint samples spread across the hardwood in front of her, she looked up at the room. "Damn," Monica muttered to herself. "I didn't think this would be such a big deal." A tiny growl from under the couch made her laugh. "I appreciate the offer, Pauley, but you don't have opposable thumbs. It'd be really hard for you to hold a paintbrush." An agreeable 'ruff' was her reply as a tiny paw stretched out tentatively. Monica brushed her fingers over the soft fur. "Okay, little girl. I think I need to call for backup." Reaching for the phone, Monica hit speed dial. 

"'Lo?" 

Monica's voice bubbled across the line. "John, what are you doing this weekend?" 

"Same as every weekend," he replied easily, "gonna eat pizza, drink beer. Maybe watch the Yankees slaughter the BoSox at noon. Why?" 

"Can you tape the game?" 

"For you? Sure." John kicked himself with a grin. *Shit, man, she's gonna call you on your little crush, you know that?* 

*For me?* Monica swallowed hard and dismissed it as a friendly gesture. "I'm painting my apartment, and it looks like it's turned out to be a bigger job than I can handle alone. I'll pay you with pizza and beer if you'll come do it with me." She laughed silently at her own choice of words. 

"Be there in half an hour," John promised, shutting off the TV. 

Monica thanked him and hung up, glancing down at the tiny Siberian Husky sitting expectantly at her feet. Laughing to herself, Monica thought, *She's got the same blue eyes John does. And that same impish look.* "He's on his way," she promised her little companion. 

When the doorbell rang, Monica leapt up to open it. Pauley was on her heels, yipping excitedly. Before she opened the door, Monica leaned down and placed a hand on the puppy's head. "No," she said firmly, just as the vet's pamphlet had told her. "No barking." Pauley settled down and Monica scratched her behind the ears, saying, "Good girl!" She opened the door and smiled at John. "Hey, come on in." He slipped past her and Monica glanced over his outfit approvingly. *Tight jeans and my favorite t-shirt,* the one with the cut-off sleeves that fit like a second skin. 

"Hey," John replied, watching the puppy as he stepped into the apartment. "Didja pick a name yet?" he asked, meeting Monica's eyes. 

She grinned and nodded. "It hit me last night, and it was so obvious I could've kicked myself." Monica paused for a second. "Pauley." 

John nodded his agreement slowly. His face was tight as he admired the little ball of black fur with white patches bouncing on the floor. He thought about the puppy's namesake, Audrey Pauley, the young woman who had given her life essentially to save Monica's. Shaking the thoughts loose, he glanced at Monica again. "Good choice. C'mere, Pauley." The puppy leapt up and skidded across the floor, landing with her paws against John's leg. She seemed to recognize him from the shelter, and her tiny blue eyes gazed up at John with an enraptured expression. 

"I guess you have that effect on all females," Monica murmured with a smile. 

"Huh?" John pretended not to hear her. If he had to be alone with Monica outside of work, having her admit that she was attracted to him wouldn't help him keep his cool. 

Monica smiled at him. "Nothing. We should figure out what colors to use so I can go to Home Depot." 

"Ah, geez." John finally cracked a small smile. "You didn't tell me I'd hafta pick colors, Monica. I don't know crap about decoratin'." 

Monica rolled her eyes in amusement. "As long as you know the difference between red and green, you can help me decide which colors look good together." 

"Awright," John conceded, crouching down in front of the paint samples. "Which rooms are we doing?" 

"All of them." 

John cursed under his breath. "That's gonna take us all of today and tomorrow. Maybe next weekend, too." 

*I know. Why do you think I asked you?* Monica grinned mentally. She wasn't one to play games, but the apartment really did need a fresh coat of paint and she couldn't do it alone. The opportunity to spend two days alone with John was just a bonus. "Come on," she coerced, crouching down behind him and resting a hand on John's back. "I'll buy your favorite beer." 

"You sure know the way to a man's heart," he deadpanned, his heart racing at her gentle touch. "Okay, you win. I guess we'll start in here." John gestured around the expansive living room area. "What color d'you want the kitchen?" 

They decided on yellow for the kitchen, blue for the living room and peach for the dining room; they put off deciding on the rest of the rooms until Sunday.   
  


* * *  
  


Returning from the store, John was loaded down with cans of paint, and Monica was carting the rest of the stuff. She had been woefully unprepared for the project, as she quickly found out. John had smiled a few times as Monica eyed the shelves of supplies warily. He helped her choose the right kind of paint, rollers, brushes and pans. John even managed to find the right combination of yellow and white to produce exactly the shade of creamy yellow she wanted in the kitchen. She rewarded him for that by brushing her hand across his back and murmuring, "What would I do without you?" 

They set out the cans of yellow paint, pans and brushes, and Monica put up the baby gates across the kitchen doorway. "No way are you putting little yellow footprints all over my floors," she told Pauley with a smile. The husky cocked her head and Monica laughed. "She's planning to cause trouble, I can already tell," she informed John. 

"She's a puppy." 

"She's a puppy *you* picked out," Monica corrected him with a soft laugh. "Which means she's a troublemaker." 

John had to smile at that. He crouched down, pouring paint into the pans, and Monica tried not to stare at how his butt filled out his jeans. She failed miserably. "Okay, looks like we've got everythin'," John said, straightening and turning to her. "Let's get to work." 

Monica tugged her shirt over her head, revealing a tight, sleeveless leotard underneath. She caught John staring and smiled in embarrassment. "Sorry," Monica said immediately. "I hope this isn't going to bother you. It's the only thing I have clean that I don't mind getting paint on," she explained honestly. 

John shook his head wordlessly. It didn't bother him at all; perhaps "distracted" was a better word for what that outfit was doing to him. Monica stepped over the baby gate and moved the dining table, pushing it against the far wall so they had more room to work. John tried not to pay attention as she grunted with the effort, but it was useless. 

"I should've put the gate up after I moved this out," Monica sighed, glancing between the puppy and the full pans of paint. 

John nodded, grabbing one side of the table. "S'okay, just lift on three and we'll get it over the thing." She did as he said and they got it over the gate with minimal trouble. He helped her stack the chairs on top of the table and they got to work. They painted in silence for a few minutes before Monica said, "Do you mind if I turn on some music?" 

"Nah, g'head." John stroked the paintbrush over the wall, leaving a light coat of yellow color over the white base. 

"Thanks." Monica climbed over the gate and went over to her stereo, slipping in a CD and clicking it on. She returned to the kitchen and got back to work as The Mighty Mighty Bosstones began to play. She sang softly to herself as they painted side by side. Pauley started out with her paws on the gate, whining to be let into the kitchen. By the time Monica had finished her wall, the puppy had given up and gone to chew on a bone, and the Bosstones were replaced by 'Little Deuce Coupe'. 

"I recognize this one," John said idly, reaching for the can of white paint. "Beach Boys. Barb loved 'em." He poured a generous dollop into his pan of yellow, diluting it to a barely-tinted white-yellow. Grabbing the nearby stepladder, John put the pan of paint on a tarp-covered counter and climbed to the top step. He started to paint the ceiling. 

"Where'd you learn that?" Monica asked. "I thought you 'didn't know crap about decoratin'." She imitated his thick New York accent with a grin. 

"I don't. All I know is that the ceilin' is sposta be a shade lighter than the walls." 

"Someone's been watching 'Trading Spaces' on his days off," Monica laughed softly, watching John's lithe form as he stretched to reach a spot he'd missed. 

"Nope," John explained quickly, "I worked with my cousin one summer, when I was fifteen, paintin' in the neighborhood." 

"Oh." A picture suddenly appeared in Monica's mind of a young, carefree John Doggett, shirtless and tanned, painting houses in Long Island. It was a picture she enjoyed very much. 

"We're about done," John said. "While the first coat dries, we can start on the dining room." 

"'Kay." Monica smiled at him. "Can I get you something to drink?" They were already working up a light sweat, even with the air conditioner going full-blast. She knew they'd be exhausted by the end of the day. 

"Sure, water'd be great," John said as another song started in the living room. "What's this one?" he asked. 

"The Dixie Chicks," Monica said, pulling a jug of water out of the fridge and pouring two big glasses. "It's called 'Long Time Gone'." 

John grinned slightly. "I didn't know you liked country," he said, reaching for one cup and taking a sip. "I thought I knew everythin' about you," John added quietly. 

"I like a little bit of everything. I made this CD myself," Monica explained, sipping her drink. She tucked his last comment away for future reference. "It's got something from every genre, I think. I just picked out the fastest songs I had on my computer. It's my workout mix." 

Monica in that leotard she was wearing, and tight bike shorts, jogging around a track. That's what John saw when she said the word 'workout', and he thought he might pass out from the image. "It's really upbeat," he said. 

"That's the idea." She pushed away from the counter, setting her cup down. "Okay, let's get going on the dining room." Reaching for the blue paint, she poured two pans full and grabbed a roller. The Dixie Chicks song belted out from the living room, 'I ain't hit the roof since I don't know when. It's been a long time gone.' "Amen," Monica said aloud, dragging the roller down the wall. 

"What?" 

"Natalie, the singer," Monica said, "she was saying it's been a long time since she 'hit the roof'. You know," she explained as John stared at her, "she hasn't gone wild lately. I was sayin' I know how she feels." 

"You're not the wild type," John pointed out, beginning to paint the other wall. "'Least, you never seemed like it to me." 

Monica nodded, watching him for a moment as he worked. "I used to be," she lamented. "I used to do all kinds of interesting things, when I was younger." 

"Like what?" 

"Oh, God, I don't know if I wanna tell you." Monica blushed at the idea. 

John shrugged; he wasn't about to push her. "Your call." 

"Well," Monica reconsidered a moment. "I used to merengue." 

"The dance?" John turned his head, his eyes smiling. 

"Uh huh." She felt her cheeks redden. "Salsa, too." 

"Wow. Barb used ta yell at me 'cause I wouldn't dance with her at weddings an' stuff." John grinned. "Don't know what I'da done if she wanted me ta learn that kind of dancin'." 

Monica grinned in self-assurance. "You'd have done it," she told John. "I know you, you're loyal to a fault. All Barbara would've had to do was make puppy-dog eyes, and you'd give in." 

Pauley looked up from her bone and whimpered as if to say, 'Hey! Stop talkin' about me.' 

"Would not," John bantered back. "I don't dance, period. Ain't nobody gonna change my mind." 

Monica saw the challenge and her eyes lit up. "I could get you to dance," she flirted softly, pretending to concentrate on painting. 

"Could not." John's ego rankled at the suggestion. "I'm not a pushover." 

"No, you're not," Monica agreed immediately. "But we women have charms, you know. We're capable of moving mountains if we have to." 

Nodding, John appraised her out of the corner of his eye. He knew she was right. That was one of the things he loved about Monica; her strength in times of crisis was immeasurable. "You're still not gettin' me to dance," John said firmly. "Besides, it ain't like you've got somewhere to go that you need a dance partner," he rationalized. "Where ya gonna make me do it?" 

"Right here, in my apartment," she added, in answer to his question. "And I didn't say I'd make you," Monica teased. "I said I'd get you to do it. I'll make you *want* to dance." 

Grinning, John finished painting the area he was working on and moved to another wall. "You can try, but it won't work." 

Monica's new goal in life was to make John eat his words.   
  


* * *  
  


They finished the kitchen and dining room and Monica glanced at the clock in the living room. "Are you hungry? I could go for that pizza." 

"Yeah," John said, leaning against the counter and chugging his water. "But I'm not lettin' you pay." 

"Yes, you are. I promised you pizza for your help. What kind do you want?" 

"Pepperoni. I'm payin'." 

"Pepperoni and sausage?" Monica bargained. When John nodded, she added, "And no, you're not paying," waving him off with her hand as she dialed the pizza place. 

"Yes, I am." 

"Okay, fine." Monica waited as the phone rang. 

"What?" 

"I said fine." 

"O-kay." John was surprised when she gave in so easily. 

"I'll find another way to pay you back." Any reply John might've had was cut off when Monica started to speak into the phone. "Hi. I need a large thin-crust, pepperoni and sausage. 555-6208. Yup, Reyes. Thanks," she hung up. 

John's face registered surprise again. "You remembered I like thin crust?" They hadn't had pizza in ages, probably not since they'd worked together in New York, he thought. 

"You're gonna love this place," Monica said. "They're the closest thing to New York pizza I've ever had down here." 

John grinned. "You owe me beer," he reminded her teasingly. 

Monica smiled at him. "That I do. If you'll walk Pauley for me, I'll run out and get it." 

"Deal. Come on, pup." The three of them headed out together, the puppy tugging at her leash happily. 

Half an hour later, Pauley was enjoying her salmon and kibble. John and Monica were relaxing on the couch, working their way through the pizza and beer. 

Halfway through her second beer, Monica was pleasantly buzzed. She found herself laughing louder than she'd intended at John's anecdotes about being an NYPD beat cop. "So the guy turned around and, I swear to God, Mon...he had the cat strapped to his chest. Guy thought the cat was a stick of dynamite. So he's standin' in the middle of the lobby, an' the teller's screamin', an' I'm just tryin' to get him to calm down 'fore he sets the cat's ass on fire or somethin'." 

Monica laughed harder as John finished his story, feeling her cheeks start to ache from smiling. "That's great." She wiped tears of laughter away. Reaching for another slice of pizza, Monica's hand brushed John's as he went for the same piece. 

"Sorry," he said, "go ahead." 

Monica shook her head, slowly, her eyes glued to his. "No. I'm not that hungry." Her heart was pounding. She wasn't going to wait any longer; this was her chance. "John," she said in a husky voice, "dance with me." 

"I don't dance." 

"You will." Monica stood and strolled over to the stereo, self-confidence evident in her easy walk. Sliding a new CD in, she hit 'play' and closed her eyes, waiting patiently. The first pounding drumbeats sounded and Monica turned, her eyes still closed. Her mind whirled at first, slowing down and focusing as she'd learned so many years ago, when she'd first learned to dance. 

The drums kept time, the guitar joining in and setting a frantically passionate rhythm. Monica began to swing her hips in time to the music, raising her hands above her head. She kept her eyes closed, moving her feet slightly as she rolled against the air, letting the lyrics fill her mind, pushing everything else out. 

'We were standing all alone you were leaning in to speak to me, acting like a mover- shaker dancing to Madonna, then you kissed me. And I think about it all the time, sweet temptation rush all over me, and I think about it all the time -- passion, desire, so intense I can't take anymore, because..." 

Monica's eyes snapped open, pinning John to the couch, stunned by the intensity in her ever-darkening eyes. She brought her arms down, crossing them in front of her. They swung with the music, flowing alongside her gyrating hips as she danced in the middle of her living room. Her feet moved of their own accord, bringing her closer to John. 

"I feel the magic all around you, it's bringing me to my knees. Like a wannabe, I've got to be chained to you. And when you looked into my eyes, felt a sudden sense of urgency. Fascination casts a spell and you became more than just a mystery, and I think about you all the time. Is this fate? Is it my destiny that I think about you all the time. I no longer pretend to have my hand on the wheel because..." 

John watched her, entranced by the motion. Her body seemed to have no bones; as she danced, it melted, pouring itself in whichever direction she chose. Reaching him finally, Monica laid a hand on John's shoulder, sliding it down his arm. Her hand cupped his, drawing him up out of his seat. She let the music take over, her inhibitions thoroughly suppressed. Monica rested her hands on John's waist, guiding him gently. He didn't seem to realize she was making him move, backing them away from the couch easily. 

"And I think about it all the time, and I think about it all the time, tell me it's madness, I barely know you. We were standing all alone you were leaning in to speak to me." 

John's arms were around her waist and Monica leaned forward, her breath hot against his cheek. His heart was pounding; everywhere that Monica's body touched his set John's on fire. 

"Ten steps back you're still a mystery." 

John felt his hips moving to the beat, led by Monica's yielding hands. He ground against her, lost somewhere in the mood she had created. Monica pulled back to smile at him, her grin replete with pride that she'd gotten him to dance with her. 'I said I'd make you *want* to dance,' her eyes sparkled at him. John settled for licking his lips in reply. Monica threw her head back, her laughter drowned out by the music. 

"Acting like a mover-shaker dancing to Madonna, then you kissed me. I can't take anymore because..." 

The music paused for a heartbeat and Monica couldn't hang on anymore. She found John's mouth with hers and pushed herself against him, feeling his grip on her tighten immediately. Taking that as a good sign, Monica let the kiss deepen. Her mind went blank as John's tongue sought hers out, his defenses crumbling. His kiss crushed the breath out of her, delighting Monica. 

"I feel the magic building around you, I feel the magic all around you. It's bringing me to my knees. Like a wannabe, I've got to be chained to you." 

THE END 


End file.
